


they told me that the end is near

by whyclarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, It's just them, That's it, and at the end, being hurt, i love these goons, i'm not sorry about it, living life, there's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 13:09:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10991589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyclarke/pseuds/whyclarke
Summary: for anon: A skaikru group leaves camp for whatever reason. Clarke gets badly injured, like gunshot or stab wound. She’s the only one in their group with medical training. So she looks at her options and chooses Bellamy to take care of her. Despite being in pain, she has to stay awake and guide him through the steps of keeping her alive. If you’re feeling extra pretty today make him break down once he’s done.(AN: it’s  slightly altered, but i'm always here for bellamy getting emotional so thank you for that, lovely anon.)title from sign of the times by harry styles <333





	they told me that the end is near

**Author's Note:**

> this is longer than i thought it was going to be, but shorter than i was hoping it would be. ya feel? i have an essay i should be doing #yolo #help
> 
> a million thank yous to [isabelle](http://bellamythology.tumblr.com/) for proofreading!

  
The problem, she knows, is the blood. Losing this much of it is a bad sign, as any doctor would know, but she just can’t staunch the flow. A Grounder had ambushed their hunting party and a knife was in her leg before she realized what was going on. Of course, Bellamy had come charging to her rescue like a really dirty, underdressed knight, knocking the warrior off of her, but the damage was done. Clarke knows that she should have told him what had happened, but the apocalypse is coming and they need food to feed four hundred people for five years. The party couldn’t return to Arkadia empty-handed, not when every wasted trip could mean another day without food when the death wave hit. And the Grounders were a constant threat, one magnified by the fog-cloaked forest - she wouldn’t allow her injury to get someone else hurt.

Clarke told herself that the injury was just a scratch, and said the same to Bellamy. But… the blood. It’s an issue. Her vision is beginning to fade around the edges, and a wave of dizziness threatens to knock her on her ass every time she takes a step. The adrenaline from the battle has long since worn off, and the deep laceration in her thigh sends lances of pain down her leg with each footfall. She’s falling behind the rest of the group, too — simply walking feels like a monumental battle, although she’s far too proud to admit that the pain is too great for her to bear.

Clarke’s breath hisses through her gritted teeth the wound is jarred, her traitorous feet having slipped on a rock dampened by the foggy spring morning, and Bellamy glances back at her. His brows knit together and his bottom lip drops with the force of his exhale, concern coloring his gaze as he examines her paling, pained plight.

“Clarke?” His voice is strained. She tries to wave him off, to tell him to keep going, but she stumbles and her vision goes white with pain.

“I’m — _ach_ — fine. Let’s keep going,” she grunts, gingerly stepping forward. Her leg collapses immediately, yelping with pain, but Bellamy has her in his arms before she can hit the ground.

“Bellamy, you’re our best hunter. Our people need you right now… I’m okay.” It sounds weaker than she intended.

“If you think I’m going to leave you here to die, you’re wrong, princess,” he says, voice gruff, and adjusts his grip.

“Seriously, Bellamy, we need food for our people. I’m not the priority.”

Bellamy only grunts in response, his dark eyes still examining her wound.

“Jesus, Clarke — you said it was just a scratch,” he growls, but there’s no heat behind the words.

“I put my people first, Bellamy, and you should too.”

“You are my people,” he snaps. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Arkadia needs food to survive Praimfaya. We can’t go back without anything, Bellamy - you know that,” she says, wincing as a jolt of pain radiates down her leg.

The storm in his gaze dissipates until only concern remains, and he lets out a sigh that she can feel from her position cradled against his chest. “You _are_ my people, Clarke,” he repeats, softer now, and she knows that he could never leave her. The weight of his words resonates in her chest and settles in her stomach, dulling the sharp ache in her thigh.

“Just don’t make the rest of them stay behind. _Please_ , Bellamy.” He examines her for a moment, dark eyes searching, and nods.

“Go ahead without us; get back to camp before nightfall,” Bellamy orders, posture straightening. The group of Arkadians begin to object, twisting back as if to try to help, but Clarke waves them off before they can offer. The movement drains her, and she feels a heavy darkness begin to press at the edges of her vision. Knowing what that darkness will bring, she shifts in Bellamy’s grip — the pain brings tears to her eyes, but it grounds her. She’s here, she’s alive, and she’s determined to stay that way.

She’s also bleeding out, which is hindering her ability to do so.

“I think I saw a cave back there — stay with me, Clarke,” Bellamy says, noticing the way her head lolls to the side. She stares up at him with her sky-filled eyes, the dark circles that purple the skin beneath standing in stark contrast to her paling face. Her labored breath is weak and condenses in the cool air, small puffs of mist trailing behind them like contrails and intertwining with the opaque fog winding around the trees.

“Bellamy, the blood — you have to stop the blood. You’re the only one I trust to do this,” Clarke says faintly, and then her eyes roll into the back of her head. She sags in his arms, finally succumbing to the pain, and slides into unconsciousness. Swearing, Bellamy quickens his pace, one hand on her back and the other beneath her knees. He shakes her a little, his jaw clenching, but she doesn’t respond.  
“Clarke, you have to stay awake. Talk to me, Clarke; tell me about what you liked to paint. Tell me about all of the reasons why we’re not working fast enough, or tell me about the benefits of allying with Roan. Tell me something, please,” he rasps. Desperation colors his voice until it wavers, until all of the authority in his tone bleeds into uncertainty and fear.

Rain begins to fall, chilly droplets pelting the pair, but Bellamy thanks whatever God there is — the cold water calls Clarke back to reality. Blearily, she opens her eyes, and he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. In a faraway part of his brain, he notes how small she is, so light that he’s certain that she hasn’t been eating. She starts talking to him, mumbling soft nothings that vaguely resemble a to-do list, and he tucks her closer into his chest and starts to jog.

The cave floor is mottled with damp leaves and dead things, the smell of rot permeating the cavern. Gently, Bellamy lays Clarke onto the ground, resting her head on a makeshift pillow of moss he found at the entrance of the small den. She murmurs at him faintly, telling him to stop the bleeding first, but her body shakes with cold — he knows that he needs to warm her up or gamble on her not catching pneumonia. The nearby trees are swollen with water and less than ideal for a fire, but Bellamy gathers the driest sticks he can find and quickly lights them with the pack of matches that Clarke insisted he carry. In case of emergency, she had said, stuffing them into his jacket pocket. He felt like this certainly counted as one.

“Clarke, what do I do? I’m not a doctor, I don’t know how to save you,” he implores, eyes devoid of hope. She tries to shift so that she can get a better view of him, but the wound stops her, and she bites her lip.

“Bellamy, you will be fine,” she starts, voice nearly inaudible yet soothing all the same. It’s the tone that she uses on her patients in the medbay, which she finds rather ironic, but it does the job. He takes a deep breath, loosening his shoulders, and looks at her again. “First, you need to clean the wound. Do you have any of Monty’s moonshine?”

He shakes his head for a moment, beginning to pace, but after two laps around the cavern he pauses.

“The car — the abandoned one, with whiskey in the glovebox? It’s nearby. I’ll be back,” he says, and is out of the cave before Clarke can muster up the strength to tell him to be careful.

He practically shoves the bottle at her when he comes back, allowing her to take a sip and savor the way it burns as the liquor slides down her throat; he rips her pants open just above her knee while she drinks, revealing the gore. He glances up at her again from his position at her thigh, head tilting in apology.

“I’m sorry for this, Clarke,” he warns, spilling the liquor onto the unclotted wound. She cries out, vision spotted with white as the whiskey washes out any bacteria like a tsunami inundating a village. After three heartbeats, it’s over, and her panting breath is the only sound save the crackling of the fire beside her.

“Okay, Bellamy, that was good. You’re doing great, okay? Now you need to place your knife in the fire, heat it up, and then cauterize the wound. We need to stop the bleeding, Bellamy,” Clarke instructs, air whistling from her grimacing teeth as she collects herself. He grabs his knife from his belt, holding it in the flames until it glows orange with heat that radiates from in waves. Wordlessly, he takes his jacket from her and rolls a sleeve into a tight cylinder, placing it in her mouth as a makeshift bit.

Wordlessly, he places the near-molten knife on her wound.

Agony, white-hot and endless, shoots from the injury up to her spine, to her brain; it feels like she’s dying. She screams through the jacket in her mouth, feeling the worn fabric tear from the force of her teeth. Her vision begins to fade as cool air kisses her wound, and she finally allows the sea of unconsciousness to wash her away. As she is pulled under by the current and the darkness fills each corner of her mind, she thinks only of him.

When she wakes up, Bellamy is crying.

They’re silent tears, of course, but she sees the way his lip trembles, watches the saltwater trail its way down his cheek and onto his thin brown tee shirt. She almost moves to wipe them away, still drunk on sleep and remnants of whiskey, but her movement draws his eye. Bellamy’s face crumples with relief, and he rushes over to where she lies.

“Clarke.” It sounds like a prayer.

“Bellamy, you saved me,” Clarke breathes. Bellamy can’t meet her eyes, exhaling softly, and he shakes his head slightly. He licks his lips a little, clearing his throat, and Clarke stills. “Bellamy?”

“It’s just — why did you want me to do this? Why did you want _me_ to save you? I can’t ever seem to protect you, even when it’s all I can seem to think about. You were going to die because I didn’t protect you, and I —” his voice cracks, and he gazes at something far beyond Clarke’s head; his eyes are clouded with demons of guilt and sorrow. “All I do is hurt people, Clarke. I had to hurt _you_ , Clarke, just to save you from my mistake. I should’ve — I should’ve been there to save you from him.”

“Bellamy…” she breathes, but he turns away. “Bellamy, it wasn’t your fault. _Look_ at me, Bellamy,” she commands, and he runs a hand through his wild curls, eyes reluctantly meeting hers. “You are not a monster, Bellamy. You are _good_ , and kind, and brave; I chose you, Bellamy, because there is no one I trust more to do this for me. I need you, Bellamy. Please don’t push me away.” He’s silent for only a moment, but it feels like an eon.

“When I saw you, Clarke, barely standing and pale enough to be dead, I went out of my mind. You almost _died_ , Clarke. I can’t - I can’t go through that again. Promise me that you’ll tell me if you’re hurt, even if you don’t want it to be a big deal.” He says it quietly, but not weakly. She tries to protest, to tell him that she can bear it on her own, but he cuts her off. “ _Promise me._ ”

The raw emotion in his voice, anxiety and fear and something warm she can’t quite place, dissolves her objections into silence. He sniffs once, catching a tear with his calloused hands. This [is what] finally erodes her resolve into silt and apologies, and she sits up.

“Bellamy, I promise. I promise. I promise,” she whimpers, and throws her arms around him. The pain from her leg is still present, but muted, and she places it in the back of her mind as his strong arms wrap around her. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, savoring the way they fit together, and he strokes her hair in slow, comforting motions. He smells like sweat and rain and something earthy that is entirely his own; he smells like home.

The quiet seems natural, but after a moment Bellamy’s voice finally resonates off of the cavern walls.

“Clarke?” His voice wavers, and she tilts her head up at him. “Thank you. For not dying, and everything.”

Her lips curl softly: a half smile for a half joke.

She snuggles deeper into his grip; his breath warms her cheek and his fingers card through her golden hair as she closes her eyes once more. As she drifts into the soothing darkness, she thinks that she hears him whisper I love you.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading this, i really appreciate it!! every comment and kudos warms my heart,  
> lovelies <3333
> 
> if you want to scream with me about the finale, come talk on [tumblr.](http://whyclarke.tumblr.com)


End file.
